


Gratitude

by gloster_meteor



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Coercion, Extremely Dubious Consent, M/M, Sticky Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-23
Updated: 2013-05-23
Packaged: 2017-12-12 17:27:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/814106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gloster_meteor/pseuds/gloster_meteor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The DJD pick Pharma up from Delphi, and Tarn decides that although Pharma can no longer provide tcogs, he still has something to offer in return for his continued existence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gratitude

They’d found Pharma crashed in a bank of red-tinted snow between the Delphi facility and their headquarters. He’d rusted away from the inside out, succumbing to his own virus until his wing struts had given out, sending him plummeting to the surface below. It had cost him one of the last shreds of his pride to send the distress call to them, instructions for synthesizing the cure for his deadly plague attached to the transmission.

Tarn, feeling magnanimous, had had him brought back and repaired—the cure administered, his damaged components replaced. He’d even had Vos build a new set of hands, though there could be no replacement for the medic’s hands with which he’d been forged. And then, without another word, he’d abandoned the jet in one of the holding cells.

Pharma would have nothing to do but think, he knew. Sit and think about what had gotten him to this point, and what awaited him. He knew Tarn’s reputation, and he knew what Tarn was capable of doing to him; the tank was certain that Pharma would imagine something far worse than Tarn intended, and that was exactly what he wanted. From experience he knew that a frightened Pharma was a compliant one, and he greatly anticipated seeing  _exactly_  how far he could push the medic before he snapped.

He’d return for Pharma in the morning— _if_  he felt the jet had had enough time to himself. If not… well, he’d let the mech stew a little longer.

—

Days later, there’d been a marked change in Pharma’s demeanor. He’d had no contact with any of them, undisturbed in his cell. He was beginning to wonder, Tarn was sure, what was in store for him. He’d be wondering, by now, if he was to be punished for his failure to keep Delphi. Or, perhaps, if he’d be used for his medical expertise Maybe they’d call upon him to create another plague—and Tarn assumed that he’d be just as loath to continue to breach his medic’s oaths but he’d do as he was ordered if it meant he’d keep his life. Pharma, it had turned out, was a simple creature.

He’d be worrying that maybe they didn’t even want him alive. Maybe they were keeping him like this, keeping him waiting in eternal suspense until they decided how, exactly, he was going to be tortured before being deactivated.

Tarn smirked to himself as he lounged in his office, idly watching the security feeds. The jet had begun to pace in his cell, wings fluttering in poorly-contained nervousness. Still, Tarn allowed him to stew in his own thoughts; in this instance, Pharma was his own worst enemy. It was only when he began to twitch and flinch at sounds and shadows that Tarn made his way down to the brig.

—

“Well,  _well_ , Pharma. How the  _mighty_  have  _fallen_ ,” Tarn said, his smugness poorly disguised as he leaned against the wall opposite Pharma’s cell, examining his fingers in a show of idle disinterest. “You had quite the  _reputation_ , didn’t you? Your  _hands_  were legendary, your  _skill_  renowned—and  _yet_ … here you are. Presumed  _deactivated_ , your hands replaced with only the most  _rudimentary_ , locked up in a Decepticon  _brig_ …” Tarn’s optics flicked to Pharma, pointedly examining him for a long moment, then pushed himself off the wall, moving toward Pharma one slow, measured step at a time until he was standing before the plasma bars of the jet’s cell. “ _You_ , Pharma, have nothing left to  _lose_ ,” he said, mock-pityingly.

Pharma, who had somehow missed Tarn’s entrance to the brig, jumped at the tank’s first words. His nervousness didn’t fade as Tarn continued; the larger mech concealed a smirk behind his mask, watching almost gleefully as Pharma made a futile attempt to contain his fidgeting by crossing his arms. And uncrossing them. Repeatedly.

“And yet you saved me,” Pharma said, his chin lifting in a poor attempt at bravado; a hint of his real question showed in his tone even before he asked it. He paused a moment, uncertain whether or not it would be wise to blatantly ask. His wings fluttered nervously, then he blurted out, “Why? I’m—”  _—useless._ He snapped his mouth shut and clenched his hands reflexively, clenching his jaw when he felt the jerkiness, the grinding of gears within the delicate joints—the crude craftsmanship in these hands was a constant reminder of what he’d lost. He couldn’t bring himself to say it, to admit aloud that he could no longer call himself a true medic. But that didn’t make it any less true, and his gaze dropped to the floor.

Tarn chuckled, extending a hand through the bars to grasp Pharma’s chin, a thumb stroking his jaw. “I’m amused you  _ask_ , Pharma,” he said silkily, as he very conspicuously swept his gaze over Pharma’s form, unsubtly assessing him. “Your use as a  _medic_  has diminished, as I’m sure you’re  _well_  aware, and you’re left with only  _one_  transformation cog for me to…  _appropriate_ , shall we say.”

Pharma instinctively tried to pull away from the touch, his wingtips fluttering, his shoulders rising, his spinal strut arching forward as he made a futile effort to curl in on himself. His ventilations quickened and his optics flicked restlessly from side to side, deliberately avoiding Tarn’s casually-threatening gaze. He knew what Tarn wanted, he just  _knew_ , and his thoughts were immediately echoed by Tarn’s silky voice.

“I’m quite  _certain_  you know what I  _want_ , Pharma,” the tank said, helm tilting in a blatant challenge. And that… that tone of  _voice_ —it was  _despicable_. Tarn was smirking at him, taking pleasure from Pharma’s discomfiture. He released the jet’s chin, standing before him for a long, tense moment. Then, abruptly, the bars simply vanished, and Tarn took a step forward, entering the cell. Pharma stepped backward, keeping his distance as Tarn took repeated slow steps forward—until the jet’s back hit the wall.

He was trapped.

Pharma’s optics dimmed in despair and his shoulders drooped. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t known already that he was trapped; it was hard to deny the facts of his situation when he’d been locked in a cell for days with nothing but his own thoughts to occupy him. But there was a difference between just _knowing_  something and  _feeling_  the truth of it resonating through his innermost components. He wasn’t a medic. Not anymore. No, now he was nothing more than Tarn’s  _pet_ , to be used as Tarn pleased.

Pharma’s optics brightened again, albeit in fear and no small amount of panic, and he lifted his gaze to meet Tarn’s, though his frame was beginning to vibrate with nervous tension. Tarn took his final step forward, his chest mere inches from Pharma’s as he braced himself with a hand against the wall. He chuckled darkly, his other hand rising to ghost over the jet’s slim waist.

“Now,  _now_ , Pharma, there’s no need to be  _nervous_. After all, you’re hardly a  _novice_  to  _selling_  yourself—how  _difficult_  can it possibly  _be_  to part with the sanctity of your  _frame_  when you’ve already parted with your  _integrity_  and your  _pride_ , hmm?” As he spoke, Tarn gradually leaned in closer and closer to Pharma’s auditory sensors, only stopping when his helm seemed to be barely more than microns away from the jet’s.

Pharma tensed and attempted to lean away, to get  _away_  from the loathsome purple mask that was far,  _far_  too close for his comfort, but he couldn’t. Tarn’s forearm was in the way, and Pharma wasn’t stupid enough to consider that a coincidence. Tarn was well-skilled in manipulation—Pharma had learned as much during his last few months at Delphi, and the days he had just spent in the brig hadn’t been without effect. It seemed that, by now, he was little more than a puppet.

Well, puppet or not, Pharma had a more-than-healthy survival instinct. If this was what Tarn wanted… Pharma wouldn’t resist. He sighed in defeat; this was beginning to become a pattern that he found he didn’t much like.

When Tarn’s hand slid over the cracked glass of his cockpit, the jet only barely contained his flinch; his abdominal plating jerked nervously. Tarn chuckled, a dark, depraved sound. “Nothing to  _say_ , Pharma?”

“Ah, well… It’s only a matter of  _time_  before I’ll have you  _screaming_  my  _designation_ , Pharma,” he intoned silkily. The jet didn’t even bother to protest; Tarn would get what he wanted, and there was nothing to be gained from arguing. So, when one dark hand made its way down his side to grasp his hip as the other ghosted over his thigh, he simply darkened his optics and tried not to tremble. At least Tarn wasn’t wasting any time.

That awful mask was still brushing against the side of his helm, and Pharma rebelled in the one small way he could, turning his head to the side just to escape that disgusting contact. Tarn chuckled, and perversely and predictably, his fingers were soon tracing around Pharma’s interface panel, driving home the fact that there was only one outcome, that any struggle was simply futile. Tarn would touch Pharma as he pleased, because Pharma belonged to him. A brief flash of despair flooded the jet, but he had no choice but to obey the tacit command in the fingers on his panel, and reluctantly allowed the cover to unlatch and slide away.

HIs optics still offline, Pharma allowed his head to fall back against the wall behind him, hoping that Tarn would just get  _on_  with it so that this whole ordeal would just be over. It was too much to expect, of course, and only a short moment later there was a finger slowly circling the rim of his valve. It was dry—Pharma was far from being aroused—and Tarn paused, tsking in mock-reprimand.

“Pharma,  _Pharma_ … I’m insulted,  _truly_. I’ve no intent to  _harm_  you—all I want is your  _cooperation_ ,” he said, feigning offense. The words seemed to resonate through Pharma’s chassis, as if he wasn’t hearing them so much as  _feeling_  them. He shivered.

This was it, wasn’t it? This was how he was going to spend the rest of his existence—as a ‘facing slave to  _Tarn_. And there was nothing he could do about it. He let out a resigned ventilation. He had no choice but to give in—perhaps Tarn would let him live if he was cooperative. If he was lucky. Feeling almost sickened, he lifted a leg, hitching it up over Tarn’s hip, opening himself up and better exposing his bared interface array for his captor. 

Having suspected Pharma’s thought process, Tarn simple laughed. “ _Much_  better,” he said silkily, as he pressed a finger slowly into Pharma’s valve. It was still unlubricated but that…  _that_  was all too easy to change. 

“Now,” he continued, “I’d  _very_  much prefer I not have to  _damage_  you, so there remain only two choices for you: we can go about this the…  _boring_  way, wherein I  _force_  you to enjoy it,” Tarn intoned, his low voice caressing Pharma’s spark, sending a demonstrative wave of combined pleasure and revulsion surging through the jet. “Or, we can go about it the  _entertaining_  way, wherein you  _learn_  to enjoy it,” he said, his finger crooking gently within Pharma in emphasis.

The jet found he didn’t have much of a choice at all—while Tarn’s ability was fascinating when directed at others, it was unnerving to have its power directed at him, to not be entirely sure if his reactions were his own; for a mech who’d been in control of each and every detail at Delphi, the idea that he could lack control over even his own body evoked an almost nauseating fear within him. He slumped as much as he could within Tarn’s grip, and spread his legs even wider in the answer he couldn’t bring himself to voice; Tarn chuckled smugly, correctly interpreting Pharma’s movements.

“I thought you might agree,” he said as he gently slid a second finger into Pharma’s valve. The jet allowed his head to fall back against the wall—more in despondency than any amount of arousal. His poorly-lubricated valve lining clung to Tarn’s fingers, and although it was nothing more than uncomfortable right now, he was well aware that he was  _far_  from being prepared to take the mech’s cord. Tarn’s “concern” for him aside, Pharma had no intention of allowing himself to be damaged in an area so delicate, sensitive, and  _difficult to repair_.

Pharma tried to summon memories of past lovers, to tear his awareness away from the hulking monster looming over him, pinning him bodily against the wall. Except—Pharma had always had a well-developed sense of self-respect (he’d been a prima donna, an unhelpful thread of thought supplied), and he’d hardly ever deigned to take a cord, let alone allowed himself to be so crudely pinned against a wall. As a result, he found himself being jolted out of every fantasy he managed to conjure simply by the sheer disparity between memory and reality.

He let out a short sigh, shifting his hips minutely against Tarn’s fingers. He’d managed to produce a little lubricant, but it wasn’t much. Still, it was enough to lessen the friction, allowing Tarn’s surprisingly-gentle fingers to bring him pleasure, rather than simply discomfort.

It was clear that Tarn was legitimately making an effort to pleasure Pharma; the fingers skillfully manipulating his valve were proof enough of that. This could even be good—if Pharma could bring himself to relax, to enjoy the physical pleasure for what it was. The medic was all too aware, however, of the fact that this was little more than a demonstration of Tarn’s possession of power, and Pharma’s lack thereof.

All Pharma had left was his pride, and one way or another, it was clear that he was going to lose it.

He sighed resignedly. Tarn was being patient with him, he knew; the tank was more than willing to expend a little effort to bring Pharma still lower. His captor’s fingers rubbed across sensor nodes, sending gentle surges of pleasure through him, and all Pharma had to do was… give in. Give in as he’d given in to Tarn’s terms at Delphi. It would cost him only his pride.

The medic sighed again, allowing his optics to offline once more and finally allowing the soft threads of pleasure to begin to build within him, rather than being ruthlessly quashed. His frame relaxed slightly, lubricant finally beginning to flow.  _He_  had no desire to enjoy this, but what Tarn wanted, Tarn generally got.

Tarn felt the change, chuckling lowly into Pharma’s audial sensor as he nuzzled the side of the jet’s helm. Pharma wouldn’t—couldn’t—allow himself to react, and moments later, Tarn was sliding a third, and then a fourth finger into Pharma’s valve, preparing him for Tarn’s considerable girth. 

The feel of fingers inside him, working his valve lining, coaxing his internal calipers to loosen up; the idea that he would soon be forced to take Tarn’s cord—they were both entirely repulsive. Pharma had never enjoyed a submissive role in interfacing, preferring by far to dominate his partners. But here he had no choice. The alternative, Tarn’s voice, was more repulsive even than submitting. He would, therefore, have to learn to enjoy Tarn’s cord, if only physically.

…If he were honest with himself, in a purely physical sense, Tarn’s fingers already felt good. With no better way to cope with his unpleasant reality, Pharma began drowning himself in the sheer physicality of his frame’s reactions, in the heat beginning to lick up his frame, in the charge beginning to flicker through circuitry. Despite himself, his arousal was quickly mounting ever higher. And, long, long minutes of  _expert_  stimulation later, he surprised himself—and Tarn—with the whine of loss that escaped him when the tank withdrew his fingers.

And Tarn… Tarn must have guessed something of Pharma’s internal struggle, because the was whispering in Pharma’s audial sensor again: “So unexpectedly  _wanton_ , Pharma. But you needn’t  _worry_ , for you won’t be waiting  _long_.” He punctuated the taunt with the soft click of his interface panel unlatching, immediately followed by the even softer hydraulic hiss of his cord pressurizing.

Pharma could feel it, the cool length of it against the plating of his inner thigh, its ridges in contact with the exposed wiring of his hip joint. He didn’t look at it; even if he’d been able to bring himself to look down, his view would have been obstructed by the press of Tarn’s chest against his own.

He let his helm fall back again, half in resignation and half in impatience, though he was loathe to admit the latter. It wasn’t soon enough (and simultaneously far too soon) that Tarn lifted one of Pharma’s legs, repositioning the jet’s hips and spreading his legs wide, and then Pharma could feel the cool, blunt head of Tarn’s cord nudging at his entrance.

In an unconscious action, Pharma’s hands flew up to Tarn’s shoulders for balance, for something to cling to as the cord’s tip slipped across his valve’s slick rim, not quite aligned yet and grazing across highly-sensitized external nodes. It was almost… tantalizing, Pharma thought, as heat flushed through his systems. He was almost  _eager_  for Tarn’s cord, as disgusting as the thought was. Was this what he’d been reduced to? An eager, wanton plaything for Tarn’s carnal desires?

Pharma didn’t want to think about it, not right now. He’d had no choice. He shifted his hips slightly, his ventilations hitching in a gasp as the head of Tarn’s cord finally seated itself in the mouth of his valve and then began to slowly, inexorably, sink home inside him. Tarn chuckled, almost a bit breathlessly, and Pharma might have sneered, might have mocked him were the jet not currently being driven nearly mindless with the exquisite stretch and the feel of Tarn’s cord’s cool but quickly-warming plating against the heated mesh lining of his valve.

Tarn was thick, as befit his frame, his cord spreading Pharma’s valve almost impossibly wide—far wider than he’d ever been spread before, that was certain. His calipers clicked, straining to expand beyond their capacity. The smooth, lubricant-slick wire mesh of his valve lining was taut around the length slowly filling him.

Distantly, Pharma heard himself moaning, feeling detached from his frame, conscious only of the blazing heat and charge already suffusing him. His ventilations were short and his hips pressed forward, trying to get all of that thick, long, impossibly good cord as deeply inside himself as it would go.

His fingers entangled themselves helplessly in Tarn’s treads as it finally seated itself within him, the ridges pressing deliciously against what felt like every single sensor node. Each minute movement was translated to a veritable deluge of sensory data cascading through him. He clutched Tarn closer to him, already nearly insensate with pleasure.

All thoughts of resistance, of how humiliated he’d find himself when this was over, of how utterly despicable he thought Tarn, had fled his mind. Tarn was whispering something to him, but Pharma had lost both the patience and the mental capacity to listen to him. He responded by wrapping his free leg around Tarn’s waist, bucking his hips, and demanding that Tarn move.

Mercifully, he did. The slow slide of his cord felt like it struck sparks inside Pharma’s valve, the ridges raking exquisitely against sensor nodes as it withdrew. It left an emptiness behind it that Pharma had never realized existed until he’d been filled so completely. He moaned. His wings fluttered, and he bucked his hips again,  _needing_  Tarn to press back inside him.

Tarn obliged, setting a slow, steady,  _forceful_  rhythm that gradually increased in pace. Each thrust drew a sobbed ventilation from him, the jet quickly coming undone by the sheer pleasure saturating his systems. His core temperature was skyrocketing, his circuitry seemingly aflame. His valve, the epicenter, felt like an inferno of dizzying sensation. His calipers had yet to fully adjust to Tarn’s girth, and they continued to click and twitch, still trying to expand further than they were capable.

It was everything Tarn could have wanted, and more.

Pharma was completely uninhibited, every punishing thrust sending a wave of unadulterated heat surging through his wiring, blue sparks leaping from his plating to Tarn’s in every place they were in close contact. He couldn’t think, his processor hazy, overwhelmed. He wasn’t going to last much longer, his fingers clenching and unclenching on Tarn’s treads, as if a solid grip would let him cling to the edge he was so perilously close to falling from.

He arched and moaned raggedly, Tarn’s designation almost unrecognizable in the sound. Pharma’s ventilations were stuttering and gasping, his fans whirring, trying to rid his frame of the blistering heat that only continued to build. He restlessly shifted his hips, canting them into the maddening thrusts, and Tarn’s cord brushed against an oversensitized cluster of nodes.

Pharma’s frame locked up—his knees tightened around Tarn’s hips, his fingers tightened in Tarn’s shoulders, his back arched. The fluttering valve already stretched so tightly over Tarn’s cord clamped down like a vice, nodes pressed flush against ridges. Charge crackled across his plating and flooded through his circuitry like a dam had burst, and Pharma’s mouth opened in a silent scream as he overloaded  _hard_.

Tarn continued to thrust into Pharma’s spasming, clenching valve, his hips snapping forward, his cord’s ridges raking across over-sensitized nodes. Pharma’s thigh plating creaked under the strain as Tarn’s hand tightened, though the jet was too blissed-out to protest. Tarn was bent over Pharma as he drove into his captive’s valve, his ventilations harsh and fast next to Pharma’s helm. His concern for the jet had seemingly evaporated, and he mindlessly chased his own release, his hips pounding into Pharma’s until, finally, they stuttered and faltered in their rhythm, snapping forward one last time. Tarn clutched Pharma close and groaned as his cord jetted transfluid into the valve that was still quivery around him.

As his frame ticked and pinged as it slowly cooled, Tarn nuzzled Pharma’s helm, his free hand rubbing the jet’s lower back and aft. “You could stand to scream my  _designation_  a little  _louder_ , pet, but on the whole, it was…  _satisfactory_ , I suppose,” he said, smug satiation thick in his voice. Pharma could muster neither the effort nor the inclination to protest, exhausted and shattered from the isolation and the overload; instead, he simply slumped in Tarn’s arms, almost falling into recharge.

Eventually, Tarn straightened up, keeping Pharma supported against his chest as he turned and deposited the limp jet on the berth. The motion finally slipped his cord from Pharma’s valve, letting mixed transfluid and lubricant seep out. It puddled on the berth, leaving both Pharma and the berth a mess, but Tarn hardly minded. It would serve quite nicely as a…  _reminder_  for Pharma.

He stood, his hand running along the flat of Pharma’s wing in a last caress. The jet’s optics were dim, but he twitched sluggishly in reaction, and Tarn chuckled.

“Recharge _well_ , Pharma,” he said, liltingly, the smugness continuing to ooze from his voice. “I’ll be  _back_.”


End file.
